


multi-love

by owilde



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Multiple Pairings, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: A collection of Gotham one shots for various, randomly generated AU + trope combinations, taken fromthis post.





	1. Bodyguard AU + Poorly Timed Confession (Jimwald)

**Author's Note:**

> I finally, _finally_ wrote something for Jimwald. Feels great. AU and trope combination for this one: Bodyguard AU + Poorly Timed Confession. 
> 
> Title taken from Unknown Mortal Orchestra's song by the same name.

Jim couldn’t believe his luck, sometimes.

His mother had warned him, of course. That if he didn’t study hard enough, didn’t apply himself enough, he’d end up somewhere he didn’t want to be. He’d brushed her off, so young and so damn sure of himself – too sure. Surely, he’d find work after finishing the program. There had to be an open market for specialized bodyguards out there.

That was what his instructor had instilled in him – focus on the now, stop thinking five years ahead. If he stopped to think about it, he’d be distracted, and distracted was bad. Distracted was a drugged client, a kidnapped client. A dead client.

So, Jim had stopped thinking of the future. And it had worked – he’d been the best in the program, top notch marks in everything and a list of special recommendations from his instructors, lavishing him in compliments for his technical skills. The only thing he wasn’t excellent at, and the one he got the most shit for, was his poor interpersonal skills.

He tried, he really did. It wasn’t _Jim’s_ fault that all of his hypothetical clients he got tested on were morons. Maybe he got snappy, or irritated – he thought it was a price worth paying for staying alive. But of course, life wasn’t that simple. People weren’t that simple.

He’d graduated six years ago with top marks, his list of damn recommendations and a reassured pat on the back that of course, he would find work easily. His instructor’s warm smile swam in his mind. _Goddammit Jim, you’ll be going places._

And now he was working for the mob.

It was certainly _a_ place. Maybe not the most legal, but Jim had been assured, during his initial interview, that he wouldn’t be doing anything criminal. The most incriminating thing he’d participate in would be turning a blind eye sometimes, and, really – wasn’t that something all of humanity was guilty of? And then, of course, an added clause of potential killing in self-defense, that hadn't made Jim feel as ill at ease as he should've. 

Jim had been turning a blind eye _a lot_ since starting work. A deaf ear, too, even if some of the screams followed him to his dreams despite his best attempts at blocking them out. It didn’t bother him as much as he would’ve thought it would, which in itself was worrying, but he didn’t dwell on it. At the end of the day, Jim got to shrug out of his suit and pour himself a finger or two of whiskey, and go to sleep, knowing he was at least doing _something_.

The clock was rolling towards ten in the evening. Jim was sitting on his bed in the room provided by his employee for overnight stays, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The window was slightly cracked open, and a faint gust of wind blew in, rattling the blinds. Jim stared at his gun, lying in its holster on the table, and felt his mouth pull into a thin line.

What would his mother think, he wondered, if she could see him now? Her great son, the one she’d been so proud of, doing _this_. It wasn’t just the job, either. Jim could stomach working for a mob boss. He could stomach following him around to sketchy meetings, hovering behind him, keeping a close eye on the ever evolving situation. He could stomach pointing the gun at someone, to keep _him_ alive, could even stomach pulling the trigger and living with the weight of it on his shoulders.

What he had a harder time coming to terms with was the fact that he’d had to go and fall for Oswald.

After Barbara, Jim had been sort of convinced that this was it for him. That she’d been the one great love of his life, and that no one would, _could_ , ever compare. That had been true for a long while. He’d gone on dates, had short and monotonous relationships that lead nowhere and never made him feel anything more than a slight pull. They’d only served to prove the point he’d made to himself; that Barbara had been his one.

Then he’d sat down for his interview for his first job, this job, and had heard a distracted, “Ah, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr… Gordon, was it?”, and that had been the tipping point.

Oswald was different. Oswald made his skin crawl, challenged him, made Jim feel more alive that he had since he’d proposed to Barbara. He was odd, and wore his heart on his sleeve too much for someone who’s job was to be a blank wall. He made Jim worry, which was bad, because it meant that Jim couldn’t leave, now. Even if there had been a different job opening, a better one, a _legal_ one, he knew he wouldn’t take it.

Jim didn’t trust anyone else to look after Oswald. He was sure his employees were credible, and had earned their positions – but none of them, Jim thought, were quite as dedicated as he was. He was silent about his loyalty, because he had to be, but he thought Oswald knew regardless. Jim had never been one for nuance or subtlety.

He didn’t think Oswald knew about any of the rest of it. Or he hoped. It would make his job awkward and complicated, might even make him compromised enough in Oswald’s eyes that he’d have to leave – and Jim didn’t want that. He didn’t want to go.

He rolled his shoulders and stood up, pouring himself a half-full tumbler of scotch from the bottle he kept in this room for these long nights where his shifts stretched beyond midnight and towards the early dawn, and everything felt that much more heavier. It tasted bitter and hot going down, and it was only then as he glanced down at his arms, where his skin was prickled, that he realized the window had been open for too long for a winter night.

He’d downed the rest of his drink and was about to change clothes when there was a knock on the door. Jim stood in his place, one finger frozen loosening the knot on his tie. “Yes?”

The door creaked open to reveal Oswald. He looked worse than usual, less put together – Jim’s eyes flickered across him, taking in the creases on his pants, the faint rings under his eyes, his greasy hair. He frowned, letting his hand fall back down. “Cobblepot?”

Oswald closed the door and turned to look at Jim with a tired smile. “Jim,” he said, and Jim’s chest felt warm. “I’ve told you – please, call me Oswald when we’re alone.”

“Oswald,” Jim amended. “What is it? Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for the meeting?”

Instead of replying, Oswald walked slowly past him and towards the window, opening the blinds. Jim turned around in tune with Oswald’s steps, his frown deepening. He followed Oswald’s gaze outside, where it was snowing lightly against the dark rusty sky, the snow flakes only illuminated by the spotlights of the street lamps.

“Do you like winter, Jim?” Oswald asked, not facing him. Jim could see him flexing his fingers around the handle of his cane, almost like a nervous tick.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I prefer summer.”

“Yes,” Oswald mused. “You would.”

Jim didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t know what he wanted, either, which was strange for Oswald who was usually so upfront with Jim. “Why are you here?” He tried, taking a step closer.

Oswald sighed quietly, closing the blinds again. He turned around, eyeing Jim. “It's a big night, tonight,” he said. His gaze turned towards his shoes, and his eyes narrowed for a second with whatever thought had passed through his mind. “It might not… end well.”

“It’s just a meeting,” Jim said. “How is this any different from the rest of them?”

Oswald’s lips pursed. “Need to know, I’m afraid.”

“And I don’t need to know?” Jim asked, feeling a faint burst of irritation rising. “I’m the _only_ person who does need to know, Oswald. How the hell am I supposed to do my job, if you don’t trust me?”

“I do trust you,” Oswald said, sounding annoyed by the implication. “But this is personal, and I don’t want you to meddle–”

“ _Meddle?_ ” Jim demanded. “It’s my job to meddle. I need to know the situation if I’m going to protect you–”

Oswald raised his hand to silence him, his eyes flickering close. His lips thinned further into an angry white line. “James,” he said, too collected. “I came here to tell you to be extra vigilant tonight. I apologize if I sounded ominous about it – I haven’t slept quite as much as I would’ve liked to, and it’s certainly… affected me.”

Jim didn’t like the use of his full name. He didn’t like the impersonal tone, the way Oswald was pushing him away. Most of all, he didn’t like that he needed for Oswald to trust him, so desperately that if it wasn’t himself in this situation, he would’ve laughed.

“It’s alright,” was all he said aloud, schooling his expression into blank professionalism. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Sorry for pressing the subject, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Oswald’s eyes flew open. He looked at Jim, and Jim thought he might’ve seen a flicker of hurt there, in the way he was watching him. “I…” He started, then stopped, shaking his head. “Yes, thank you. I’ll send someone for you when we leave. I suggest getting ready now.”

Jim didn’t move until the door had clicked shut behind Oswald. His shoulders sagged, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards. When had his life become this complicated? Jim hated complicated. He should’ve never met Oswald, but now that he had, nothing could ever be the same.

He changed into a new suit and had another half-glass of scotch. His gun was still lying on the table when there was another knock on the door half an hour later. Jim attached his holster and took one final look in the mirror on his wall. A tired man stared back at him with worn-out eyes. Jim blinked, and turned away, following one of Oswald’s employees to the car outside.

The atmosphere felt tenser than usual. Jim was sat next to Oswald, staring out the darkened window panes at the streets of Gotham passing by. It looked dirty and torn, but in a way that made Jim feel at ease. It was a familiar sight.

“So,” he said after they’d been driving for a while. “What’s the goal for tonight?”

Oswald shifted in his seat. “I’d like to acquire some territory from around Arkham,” he told Jim. “The current holders might be… reluctant, to let go.”

“Ah.” Jim turned to look at him from the corner of his eye. ‘ _It’s personal’_ rang around his mind. What was personal about a territorial deal? “Might escalate?”

“It very well might,” Oswald agreed, but he didn’t sound too on edge. “I’ve prepared to make concessions, but not too many. If we can’t reach an agreement, well – that would tide rather unwell for Turner.”

Jim didn’t ask – didn’t want to know. Instead, he said, “I see.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the meeting point. It was a warehouse near the docks, tucked away amid a dozen identical buildings, distinguishable only by the large numbering on their sides. Their car stopped in front of number 6 – outside, people were already milling about in a mass of black coats and shiny shoes.

Jim heard Oswald take a deep breath, before he slipped out the car, slamming the door shut behind him. Jim followed in suit, catching up to him and looming just a few steps behind, his shoulders tense and his eyes scanning the crowd for every detail.

Snow was still falling down. Some flakes stuck to Oswald’s black hair and clothes, vivid against his lack of color. Jim tore his eyes away from the exposed sliver of neck he saw above the collar of Oswald’s coat.

They walked up to the crowd of people. One of them separated from the rest, walking up towards Oswald with an annoying smirk in place, eyeing both of them up.

“Oswald,” he greeted. “How’s life been treating you? Any better since I left?”

Oswald’s lips pursed, and Jim worked to keep his face blank. Ex – partner? Employee? Something else? He didn’t want to guess, feeling unwarranted jealousy twirl around his stomach.

“Turner,” Oswald said icily. “One to one, I’m presuming? Or did you want to discuss plans with all these lovely people around?”

Turner’s lips twitched. “No,” he agreed. “Best not. You never know who’s listening harder than they ought to.”

They moved inside the warehouse, Turner’s own bodyguard latched on to his side. Jim let his eyes roam around the space, taking note of exits and hide-outs. He didn’t trust Turner as far as he could throw him. He found himself hoping Oswald would’ve taken to the habit of carrying a gun, himself.

They stopped in the middle of the warehouse, standing opposite to each other. Turner pushed his hands in his pockets, looking as relaxed as could be. He hadn’t so much as spared Jim a glance, but his eyes slid towards him now, considerate.

“New muscle?” He asked, looking back at Oswald with a raised brow. “Kinda scrawny, no?”

“I’m not here to discuss my staff,” Oswald replied. Jim felt a twinge at his words. Staff. “I’m here for Arkham.”

A bored look overtook Turner’s face. “Arkham? What the hell for?”

Oswald shrugged. “Not relevant,” he said. “Are you selling it, or are you not?”

“Depends,” Turned said flippantly. He stepped closer. “I’m curious, Oz. I keep hearing all these rumors that you’re doing just amazing now, really stepping up your game – was I really that much of a burden, hmm? A rock dragging you down?”

Oswald’s lips thinned again. "This is not relevant."

"Of course it is," Turner said. Jim found himself liking him less and less by the second. "I'm dying to know. I agreed to meet you, and even on your grounds. I believe I deserve  _some_ kinds of answers. Think of it as preliminary payment."

Jim could see the way Oswald's shoulders tensed, and shifted his weight anxiously. A tense Oswald lead to a snappy Oswald, which more often that not lead to trouble. Jim's gun was heavy against his leg, reminding him of its presence.

Oswald sighed, straightening his back. “Why do you ask, when you know the truth? Yes, you were a burden. And as you can see, we’re both doing much better separate. I'd say it was beneficial for both of us, to go our own ways. Are you selling or not?”

Turner rolled his eyes. “See?” He asked his bodyguard, spreading his arms open, as if to say, _can you believe this?_ “No appreciation for me. I can’t say I’m surprised. You really haven’t changed, Oswald." He paused. "No, I’m not selling. But I do have a much better off to give you, instead.”

Jim had a millisecond to register the way Turner’s lips flicked upwards, and how his hand moved to his waist, before he had his gun drawn and pointed at him. He hadn’t moved from where he was standing beside Oswald, who hadn’t made an effort to get behind cover.

Jim would berate him for that later.

“Drop it,” he called out to Turner, who had his own gun aimed at Oswald.

Turner huffed. “I don’t think so.” He had his eyes locked with Jim’s. “Do you trust you’re fast enough, kid? Because I doubt you are. Not faster than me at any rate.”

Jim didn’t let his expression change. “I don’t need to trust,” he said. “I know it for a fact. You move your finger an inch, and you’ll be cold before you can even think about pulling the trigger.”

“Wanna test that?” Turner asked lightly. His eyes darted towards Oswald for a second – Jim saw his finger move, and instinctively moved to stand in front of Oswald, but before he could, a shot rang out.

It hadn’t been aimed at Oswald.

Jim heard a cry, and felt himself hit the floor with a thud, landing on his side. His head hit the floor – he blinked his eyes open, his vision swimming, and there was a sharp pain in his right shoulder, he felt it now, and recognized the familiar feeling of blood oozing out.

He looked up, and realized that Oswald had pushed him away from the direct line of shot. Oswald, who was now crouched next to him, his panicked face fading it and out. Jim estimated it hadn’t been too long – time felt slower than it usually did – and he rolled to his side, scrambling for his fallen gun.

Turner was aiming to shoot again, walking towards them with a sharp grin. Jim could hear Oswald talking, but his words made no sense to him – his ears were ringing, and everything was blurry but Jim knew what he had to do, what he was going to do.

He tightened his hold on his gun and aimed it at Turner with trembling hands.

“Really?” Turner asked, amusement lining his tone. “With that shoulder? Concussion?”

Jim didn’t bother giving him a reply – he pulled the trigger, missing Turner by a few inches, heard something thud, then fired again and watched Turner step aside from the line of fire, laughing now – he fired a third time, and abruptly, the laughter died out.

“Jim,” Oswald’s voice called out from next to him. “Jim, we have to _go_!”

In the muddle of his thoughts, Jim realized what he’d done, and what would happen in a few seconds if they didn’t leave now. There was a crowd of people outside, waiting for them to emerge. Had they heard the shots? It would've been hard to miss. Everything was slowly becoming clearer, sharper – Jim nodded, trying to sit up and wincing in pain when he leaned his weight on his right arm.

“Come on,” Oswald said. He looped his arm around Jim’s waist and hoisted him up.

“I’m good,” Jim mumbled, insistent, relishing the feel of Oswald's hands on his body. He turned back to look at Turner, lying on the floor, and noticed his bodyguard dead a few feet away from him. “What…?”

“Stray bullet,” Oswald explained. “We need to leave,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. He glanced around the room, and saw the exit door he'd took note of before near towards the back. “Through there?”

“Good enough,” Oswald said.

They slipped outside to the flurry of snow. Their car was still parked away in front of the building. Jim knew they’d take one look at his bleeding shoulder and their disheveled appearance, and put two and two together. He turned towards Oswald, whose face was glowing under the street lamp.

“You have to drive,” he said, and watched as Oswald’s face transformed into an expression he’d rarely seen before – genuine bewilderment.

“What?” He hissed. “I can’t _drive_.”

“Yeah?” Jim asked. “Look at my goddamn shoulder and make your own conclusions. You have to drive. Now, we’re going to walk in there, walk straight to the car, and _leave_.”

Oswald was still staring at him with an incredulous look. “Gabe can drive,” he argued.

“No time,” Jim replied, already walking. The wound on his shoulder was a constant ache, pulsating. He grit his teeth and holstered his gun, wondering how badly he was bleeding and whether or not the bullet was still lodged in there.

Oswald follow him with no further complaining as they rounded the warehouse and made a beeline for their car. Jim faintly heard something being called out, followed by general ruckus, and then he was slipping into the passenger seat of their car.

He craned his neck and saw Turner’s men piling into their own vehicles. “Please tell me you know how to use the pedals,” he asked Oswald, keeping his eyes on the cars who were starting their engines.

He heard Oswald mumble, “I’m not an _idiot_ ,” before the car zoomed ahead a good twenty feet so fast Jim felt himself being pressed against his seat from the pressure. Oswald hit the brakes just as abruptly, before getting the car under control.

“Where are we going?” He asked as they sped away from the docks and towards the city center.

Jim’s eyes were trained on the two cars following them. “My place,” he decided. It was relatively safe, he thought, at least for the night. They could deal with the rest of the consequences tomorrow. The realization hit Jim that he'd probably made Oswald's life a bit more difficult, and his heart sank. “Just head towards Upper East Side, I’ll tell you where to go once we get closer. And can you drive any faster?”

The car made an angry turn to the right, flinging Jim from his position and slamming him against the door with his injured shoulder. Pain pierced through is body like a lightning bolt. He cursed, blinking white spots away from his vision.

“Sorry,” Oswald said, sounding distracted. Jim glanced at him – his knuckles were white from clutching the wheel. “Jim, you need to give me directions _now_.”

Jim looked out the window. They were heading through Chinatown, zipping through the rest of the traffic, occasionally scratching another car with theirs. “Next right,” he called out, and braced for impact as Oswald spun the wheel in another sharp turn.

The part of his brain that wasn’t occupied with fearing for his life was caught up watching Oswald. Anger suited him well, he realized, watching the way his jaw tensed and his eyes hardened. Made him look more alive.

A thought slipped into his mind as he rewound back the events of what had just happened. “At the warehouse,” Jim started, turning back to glance behind them. Both of the cars were still following them, but not so close by anymore. “What were you saying?”

“What?” Oswald asked, turning to look at him. He was scowling. “Nothing.”

“No,” Jim insisted. “I heard you say something, what was it?”

“Jim,” Oswald said, grinding his teeth. “Your timing is _horrendous_.”

They took a turn to the left, then right through a small alleyway, then another turn left. Jim saw one of the cars crashing its left side against a corner and spin out of sight. The other was still tailing them, losing speed.

“Step on the gas,” he said, wondering whether or not he could shoot out a tire if he opened the door and leaned out far enough. “What did you–”

“I said you can’t die!” Oswald grit out, gripping the wheel even tighter. “I said that you… you cannot _die_ , because I care about you, James, and I have these _feelings_ that make thinking clearly very difficult when it comes to you.”

Jim blinked at him, quiet. “Oh.”

“Where to?” Oswald asked, carefully not looking at Jim.

“Left,” Jim said, feeling a little dazed. “Uh, left here, and then we can loop around the block to get rid of the car.”

He leaned back against his seat. Feelings? It was too broad of a term. What did feelings mean, in this instance? Jim wanted to ask, but he couldn’t think clearly through the pain. He pressed his fingers against his shoulder, and watched as they came out bloodied.

They pulled on the alleyway behind Jim’s apartment. Oswald killed the ignition, and they sat in silence for a while. The car following them didn't show up. It had stopped snowing, Jim noticed absently. The alleyway was dark and deserted around them.

“We should get inside,” Jim said into the silence.

“Probably,” Oswald agreed. He glanced hesitantly at Jim. “How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse,” Jim said, and climbed out of the car.

The climb to his apartment on the fourth floor felt longer than it had ever before. Jim fished his keys from the bottom of his coat pockets and swung his door open, stepping into the silent, dusty space. He toed his shoes off and flicked the hallway lights on, before turning back to Oswald.

It was weird, seeing him in Jim’s space. He’d gotten rid of his jacket – it was folded over his crossed arms. He was eyeing the apartment around him curiously, taking in the pile of dishes and discarded shirts, and Jim felt a flush of embarrassment rise up.

“I’ll take care of the shoulder,” he said, blinking his eyes away. “You can sit down, if you want to. I’m guessing you have some calls to make.”

Oswald nodded. “Yes, well. Needs must.” He paused. “Do you need help?”

Jim thought about being trapped in his tiny bathroom with Oswald, of him helping him bandage his shoulder, and felt his stomach drop a little. “It’s fine,” he said weakly. “You should take care of your businesses. I’ll be fine.”

Oswald gave him one last skeptical look, but made his way to the couch and pulled his phone out, rapidly typing something out. Jim let his eyes rest on him for a small while, taking it in – Oswald, here, on his couch, looking disheveled and irritated and gorgeous – before shaking his head and going to the bathroom.

Rummaging through his medicine cabinet produced some gauze and painkillers. Which was nowhere sufficient enough if the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, nor would it really fix the dizziness he was feeling from blood loss, but it would be a start.

Jim shrugged himself out of his jacket and pulled his shirt off, wincing as the fabric stuck to his skin with blood was torn away. He eyed the wound through his mirror, brows furrowing. The skin around it was bruised and torn, bleeding down his arm in thin rivers, but it didn't look too bad to him. Manageable, even.

He sat down and started wiping the blood off, wincing from pain each time he brushed against the open wound. He could hear the steady litany of Oswald’s voice, carrying out from the living room. It sounded comforting, despite what Jim could guess the topics of his calls to be. He focused on Oswald's muffled words, trying to keep his breathing even.

He was almost done cleaning his arm when the door was pushed open, and Oswald stepped inside. He’d rolled his sleeves up and brushed his hair aside. There was a gash on the left side of his face. Jim felt his throat go dry.

“Hey,” he said. “How bad does it look to you?”

Oswald eyed his wound calmly, but Jim saw his eye twitch minutely. “We’ll get you fixed up tomorrow,” he said decisively, dodging the question. “I’ll bandage it for you.”

“It’s fine,” Jim said reflexively.

But Oswald was already holding the gauze and leaning closer. Jim could smell his cologne, could see the light freckles on his face. He swallowed air, letting Oswald begin wrapping the gauze around his shoulder and chest.

He fixed his eyes somewhere around Oswald’s collarbone. “When you say feelings,” he started quietly, “do you mean what I think you mean?”

Oswald paused for a second, before resuming with a sigh. “That depends. What do you think I meant?”

Jim blinked. His heart was climbing up his throat. “Something like what I feel,” he said. “Love.”

This time, Oswald’s fingers froze, pressing gently against his shoulder. The silence around them was palpable, deep enough to be able to be cut through with a knife. Jim’s mind was spinning, and his vision a little bit, too. He needed rest. But he needed to hear Oswald’s response more.

The silence stretched on. Oswald didn’t move away from where he was, crowding Jim’s space, close enough to radiate heat. Then, eventually, after an eternity, he spoke again. “Yes.”

Jim’s eyes fell shut. He leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Oswald’s shoulder, breathing him in. “Good.”

Neither of them spoke any more than that.


	2. Soulmates + Mutual Pining (Batcat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is twelve when he first sees in color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Selina, soulmates AU + mutual pining, slight canon divergence

Bruce is twelve when he first sees in color.

His parents are lying on the street beneath him, and there’s blood pooling around them, infecting the air with its sickening stench. Bruce feels broken and intangible, like he’s not really there, in his body, like maybe none of this is happening. He can’t see the crimson, can’t see the color of his mother’s favorite jacket that he’s heard being described a million times over but has never really grasped.

There’s a noise, he vaguely registers it; Bruce looks up, towards the staircase leaning against the side of a building. A girl, his age, is crouched by the stairs. His eyes lock with the hers, just for a second, before she bolts and is gone in the blink of an eye.

There’s a lurch in his chest, one that Bruce is almost certain the girl did not feel, because if she had, she wouldn’t be gone now. It’s a pull, like a signal – _here_ , it says, _there she is_. But she’s not, she left, and Bruce can’t breath quite right.

Hues start seeping in slowly at first, and then all at once like an explosion of ink on his retina. Bruce blinks rapidly and shakes his head, disoriented and dazed, because this was not how this was supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

He looks down, and for the first time, sees blood. He sees what color his father’s eyes are as they peer upwards towards the cloudy sky with a glaze over them. He sees the golden pattern sewn on his mother’s dress, sees the speckles of red covering their pale skin, sees the ugly rusty tone of the alleyway.

Everything is too much. He was supposed to meet his soulmate at a gala, lock eyes across the room and watch as colors bloom across his vision. He was supposed to go tell his mother, who would be ecstatic, and his father, who would quietly amused. They were supposed to love him back.

The sirens wail in the distance, and when Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and falls to his knees, the bright shadows dancing beneath his lids are sickening.

 

Bruce becomes obsessed with red. Different shades, different saturations. When he cuts into his skin, it produces a different red than a burn mark does, and whenever Alfred finds out about his endeavors, his face flushes with yet another kind of red.

Alfred tells him he’s being an idiot. Bruce knows he is. It doesn’t change anything, really, because he continues hurting and hurting continues helping. He never wants to be afraid anymore. He can’t feel paralyzed like that another time, and he most especially can’t fall into that catatonic state of absolution, where nothing matters and nothing is real.

He doesn’t tell anyone about the colors. It doesn’t matter. He hasn’t seen them in years, he can continue pretending he doesn’t see them now. It’s easy. Easier than having to explain to Alfred what happened, what else he lost that night.

Bruce doesn’t think about her. There’s a funeral, and then there’s unbearable anger that seems never ending. He wants to claw at his chest until the bubbling rage dissipates, or until it becomes something he can control, harness. For now, though, it leaves him feeling bitter and wrong.

Alfred tries to understand. Detective Gordon tries to help. Bruce tries to play his part. He’s not sure if any of them are succeeding as well as they’d like to. Absently, Bruce thinks maybe he should take matters into his own hands. Maybe he’s the only one who can solve this.

They start training, and it’s as good of a channel as any for his frustration and anger. Bruce draws his energy from his inner conflict and the bouquet of emotions that brew in his chest. He’s a controlled chaos inside one too young boy.

He doesn’t think about her, until he has to.

He catches her in his house, looking like she belongs there amid the antiques and other expensive artifacts his parents had acquired. She’s inspecting a vase, looks like she might want to drop it. Bruce thinks he would let her, and only later realizes that she wouldn’t ask for his permission.

Her name’s Selina, and he’s almost positive she doesn’t know. His heart feels uncomfortably heavy in her presence – they share a memory he doesn’t share with anyone else. She knows too well what happened, what he did and didn’t do. She can’t share his pain, but she can understand it.

She’s everything Bruce ever needed, and everything he can’t ever have.

It’s frustrating, and keeps him awake at night sometimes, along with everything else that he can’t think about during the day without breaking down. He can compartmentalize exceptionally well – he can lock thoughts about Selina inside a room in his head and only return to it when it’s convenient for him.

The trouble comes when the thoughts begin to leak through the cracks without his permission, like a dam that’s cracking under pressure. He’ll be eating dinner, and think about her crooked smile. He’ll be training, and think it’s her he’s sparring with, and lose all concentration.

Alfred doesn’t comment on any of it, but Bruce thinks he knows. He won’t ask aloud, and Bruce won’t tell, but there’s an air of understanding between them whenever Selina’s around.

The third time they meet, she comments on the dullness of monochrome. Bruce has already forgotten what that feels like – has already gotten used to the vibrancy of colors. She says she’d rather her soulmate be a complete jerk than have to hear the beauty of a rainbow described to her one more time in agonizing detail.

Bruce doesn’t look at her when she tells this. He doesn’t like the fact that he could get lost in the color of her eyes, if he let himself.

 

Things change. Their dynamic, whatever it may be, shifts. Bruce doesn’t ask why she dares him to kiss her, doesn’t ask if her soulmate would mind. Neither of them ever mention the unspoken things between them. They don’t kiss, either. Bruce is not sure he could keep his mouth shut if they did.

And near death puts things into perspective. The concern is not so much for Bruce as it is for the people he still has left – namely, Alfred. It’s a symbiotic cycle of hypotheticals – if Bruce dies now, what will happen to Alfred? If Alfred dies, what will happen to Bruce?

He needs to leave, he understands. Bruce is only putting Alfred at risk with his presence. He’s a ticking time bomb, and Alfred’s experienced enough of those for a lifetime, already.

When he’s on the streets, the shift becomes more pronounced. Selina isn’t just a thief with the skills to match – she has a good heart, too. Bruce can see clear glimpses of it underneath the harsh exterior, and relishes these moments. They prove to him that this is real, that the universe didn’t make a mistake.

If Selina is a good person, Bruce is not wrong for liking her, no matter what the rest of the facts are. She won’t love him back, but she doesn’t have to. Bruce trusts her, and maybe she trusts him or maybe she doesn’t, but whatever the case is, they work well together.

Bruce likes being around her. Her cynicism is a refreshing bite each time she opens her mouth to snark at him, and when it melts into something softer, something he thinks might only be reserved for him, it feels… special.

The streets feel less cold with her around. Bruce knows there’s a lot he needs to adapt to, that if he doesn’t see what’s out there and can’t prepare for every single ultimatum, variation and outcome, he’s never going to achieve what he wants to. But if he wants to take a break, for just a few seconds, to simply look at Selina and press things into memory, then maybe he can do that.

 

It becomes increasingly difficult, to not tell her. He thinks she deserves to know. He thinks it’s selfish of him to keep something so massive from her, just so that he can feel better and shield himself from the incoming damage. She should know that he’s acutely aware of the exact brown of her hair, the mismatch of her dark nail polish she can’t see for herself.

He starts small, and tells Alfred, who shakes his head and wonders if Bruce truly thought he didn’t know. Bruce doesn’t ask if it really was that obvious – he’s not sure he wants to know. Instead, he hugs Alfred, and feels gratitude for having someone like him in his corner.

Then he gets cold feet, and studiously avoids Selina for weeks. He doesn’t want to lose her, but he can already feel her slipping away. He thinks she wants to be his friend, and he knows he can be that, but it doesn’t ease the nagging feeling of _more_ , the pull and tug he feels towards her that hasn’t left since the first night they met.

He’s pouring over work one night with the table lamp on. One second he’s alone, and the next, she’s there beside him, perched on his desk.

“Talk,” is all she says, fixing him with a demanding look.

Bruce frowns, putting his pen down. “What?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Selina says. “Something’s up. Usually, you follow me around like a damn puppy, so clearly, something’s wrong. Talk.”

Bruce has a split second to think about it – to consider his possibilities. He can still hide and lie. But he’s tired of it. He’s tired of pretending. He purses his lips, and says, “I like the color of your eyes.”

There’s a pregnant pause where Selina doesn’t get it, and then her face goes blank with understanding. Bruce traces her features, feeling guilty and relieved all at once. She’s not saying anything, but she’s not moving away either.

“I like yours, too,” is what eventually comes out of her mouth, and this time, Bruce is caught blind-sided.

“You… But you told me, you haven’t met them yet. I was under the impression…”

“Yeah,” she says, still a little stunned. “I lied. I thought, no way is Bruce goddamn Wayne my… whatever. No way am I his. And you told me you saw in black and white too, so I just thought it can’t be. That we– that there’s probably a mistake, or something.”

Bruce scrambles to say, “This isn’t a mistake.”

And finally, Selina’s face cracks into a small smile that lights up the whole room. “That remains to be seen,” she says, and when she leans in to press an almost-not-there kiss on his lips, everything makes sense again for a while.


	3. War AU + Stranded Because Of Bad Weather (Wayleska)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For him to get stranded here, of all places, is purely bad luck. He seems to have an abundance of that, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how to characterize Jeremiah, so here we are. War AU + Stranded Because of Bad Weather, set vaguely in WW2.

Bruce glances out the window, pursing his lips at the sight. The snow is getting worse, a flurry of white blizzard that makes seeing further than ten feet impossible. The inside of the hut is freezing cold – Bruce shudders in his standard issued winter coat, pushing his hands into his pockets to shield them from the breeze that somehow pushes its way in through the bad insulation.

For him to get stranded here, of all places, is purely bad luck. He seems to have an abundance of that, though. Getting drafted had been the first stroke of misfortune. Bruce’s stomach lurches uncomfortably at the memory of leaving Alfred behind in the manor. They hadn’t cried, saying goodbye, but if Bruce had quietly broken down the first chance he got to be alone, well. No one needed to know.

He steps away from the window, drawing the curtains shut. Even though the chances of anyone seeing in are astronomically tiny, he’s not taking his chances. The hut falls into darkness.

Bruce contemplates lighting a fire, but the smoke coming from the chimney would alert anyone near him to his existence. The less lived-in the hut looks like, the safer he is. And besides, he doesn't have matches. He sits down by the sturdy oak table, leaning against the wall with his teeth chattering from the cold.

If the blizzard passes by in a day or so, the march back to their main camp wouldn’t be too long – some ten miles, and the terrain isn’t pure flat ground; he’ll have some cover for most of the trip. It wouldn’t take all that much time.

Bruce sighs, watching his breath turn to mist. The tips of his fingers and toes feel numb – he tries to wiggle them around, to get the blood flowing, but it doesn’t do much. He settles on taking his hands from his pockets and breathing warm air to where his skin isn’t covered by gloves, then rubbing his palms against each other, trying to create friction.

He hugs himself tight, lifting his knees up. The smaller he makes himself, the warmer he seems to get. The fire feels like a faraway fantasy, a tantalizing daydream. His nose feels like it might fall off any second now. Bruce buries it under the collar of his coat, half of his face hidden beneath his clothing.

All of this for a simple scouting mission. And he hadn’t even found the enemy line.

If Bruce dies from hypothermia, Alfred’s going to kill him.

Suddenly, the door is thrown open and a gust of snow rushes in. The handle bangs against the wall, the hinges creaking like the brakes of a train. Bruce has his gun ready and aimed before two seconds have passed, his finger on the trigger and his heart beating a million miles per hour.

The door falls shut as Bruce scans the newcomer quickly, analyzing the situation. He’s staring at Bruce with a dead expression, his hands drawn up in surrender. He hasn’t even gone for his weapon, which is lying against his back, strapped securely with a belt. Bruce eyes his uniform and the badges, the patches on his sleeves – then he breathes a small sigh of relief and puts his gun down on the table beside him.

“Спасибо,” the man says quietly, letting his hands fall. “английский?”

“American,” Bruce replies.

The man smiles dryly. “I meant, you speak English? The American part was… easy to guess.” His accent pushes through, but not too heavily. He speaks softly, barely audible even with the distance between them being so small.

“Oh.” Bruce watches the man as he remains rooted in his place. “What’s your name?”

“Valeska,” the man tells him. “Jeremiah is what my friends know me by.”

The last name sounds Slavic to Bruce – remnants of the previous war, if he had to guess, some unfortunate situation. Or maybe not, but he’s not too optimistic. He likes the first name better. Jeremiah. It suits him, an odd name for an odd man.

“Bruce Wayne,” he says. “I would shake your hand, but…”

“Ah,” Jeremiah exclaims. He walks over to where Bruce is, and sits on the other side of the table, his back straight and his fingers crossed on the tabletop. “Excuse me. It seems the cold’s done something to my ability to think.”

“Understandable,” Bruce says, smiling slightly, and reaches over the table to shake Jeremiah’s hand. His skin is cold, and the gun lies below them, an unspoken guarantee and a threat. Bruce feels something like sparks fly up his arms when they touch, and he can’t identify the feeling but it’s odd and new and intriguing all at the same time.

Jeremiah’s eyes are too dark, he thinks briefly, before said eyes are looking away from him and his hand is withdrawn. Bruce leans back as well, his gaze not leaving Jeremiah’s face. It’s very angular, shaped like a sculpture – like maybe if he reached out, he could cut his skin on the corners. But he doesn’t reach out.

Bruce wonders what a Russian troop is doing so far out here, and where their lines are. Then he wonders if Jeremiah would think it’s a terrible idea to light the fireplace.

“Do you have matches?” He finds himself asking. “I borrowed mine to a friend, before. Never got them back.”

Jeremiah’s eyes flicker up to him, inquisitive. “Matches? Yes. What for?”

“Fireplace.”

“What a terrible idea,” Jeremiah says.

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “But I’d rather take my chances than freeze to death.”

Jeremiah seems to contemplate his suggestion for a while. Then his fingers reach into the depths on his pockets and pull out a box of matches. He flicks them across the table to Bruce, who catches them mid-air and smiles a little. Jeremiah doesn’t return the smile.

The logs are dry and don’t take all too long to catch on fire. Soon, the flames are crackling brightly, illuminating the entire hut in orange and red hues, dancing across the walls. Bruce pockets the matches reflexively and steps back, only a little, before slumping on the floor in front of the fire. He puts his hands forward to catch some of the heat, feeling his shoulders relax as feeling starts to return to them, slowly.

Jeremiah stares at him from by the table, frowning a little. “How long do you think the storm might last for?”

Bruce keeps his eyes on the flames, watching them move in fluid yet spasmodic patterns. “Hours,” he says. “Or days. I hope it will clear out by tomorrow – I ought to get back to our camp.”

Jeremiah hums in acknowledgment. “Me too,” he says, but doesn’t offer anymore as to where he’s come from, or what for. Bruce waits patiently, because it’s what he’s good at, until Jeremiah continues. “This house was a very lucky find. It’s freezing.”

“It is,” Bruce agrees. He glances at Jeremiah, who doesn’t look too bothered by the cold but still has to be feeling the seeping chills. “And there’s a perfectly good fire, here.”

Jeremiah purses his lips – the most emotion Bruce has seen him show. Then he’s crossing the distance to sit down next to Bruce, ending up so close that their shoulders are pressing against each other. He’s taller than Bruce, but not by much.

Bruce adamantly doesn’t look in his direction. He’s too close for that. He’s not denying himself, not anymore, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a time and a place, and those times and places most especially aren’t here, and now.

Jeremiah, oblivious to his thoughts, clears his throat. “You’ve been here for long?”

Bruce doesn’t know what he means: this hut, this continent, this war. Nevertheless, he answers, “Not that long.”

“I have,” Jeremiah says, and the unspoken things in his voice are very loud to Bruce. “For… a few years, now, I think.” He pauses, not quite sighing. “It doesn’t seem like there’s an end, does it.”

It’s not a question, but Bruce answers, “No, it doesn’t.”

They resume their silence. Bruce’s stomach grumbles in a futile protest; he ate the last of his rations yesterday. He drinks water to silence the worst of it, and offers some to Jeremiah, who shakes his head no.

He thinks about home, wonders absently how Alfred is doing. If he focuses too much on it, it gets to him – breaks the carefully built shell surrounding him. So, Bruce only wonders it in the peripheral of his mind, before moving on, to the present, where he has a say, still, on what happens and doesn’t.

He’ll check the snow again, soon. Then he’s confronted with a new problem – whether he trusts Jeremiah enough to fall asleep around him, or not. He thinks he doesn’t. Another thing that would cause chagrin in Alfred – dying because of careless, idiotic behavior like that, motivated only by Bruce’s irrational want to trust this man he only knows the name of.

As if reading his thoughts, Jeremiah asks, “Will you sleep?”

Bruce’s brows flicker into something like a frown. “No,” he decides.

“Alright. I will.”

Bruce shoots him a surprised look. “You will?”

“That’s what I said,” Jeremiah drawls. “I trust you not to kill me in my sleep, Bruce. If that was what you wanted, you would’ve done it by now.”

Hearing his name sends odd shivers down Bruce’s spine. He lets the thought come and go in one fluid movement, then stands up wordlessly, and goes to take a peek through the curtains. It’s gotten dark outside, but the snow hasn’t calmed down much – in fact, it looks like it’s almost gotten worse.

Bruce curses under his breath, and lets the curtains fall back to their place. “It looks like we’ll be here for a while,” he says. “If you want to sleep… I think maybe we should take turns.”

Jeremiah hasn’t moved from the fireplace, hasn’t even looked in his direction. “Yes,” his voice carries over. “That does sound like a somewhat good idea.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, “for the vote of confidence.” But he’s smiling, against his best intentions.

When Jeremiah has the gall to say, “You’re welcome,” Bruce knows they’re in for a long night.


End file.
